Taking Flight
by madmbutterfly713
Summary: Flight's secret no one had to know. He and his twin, Blink, didn't have to tell anybody. But no secret can stay a secret forever, right?
1. Chapter 1

"No."

"What did you say?" Skittery asked, his eyes narrowing menacingly. The new kid sighed, looking away.

"I said no. I don't want to race you," the new kid replied. The new kid's brother, who had recently been dubbed Kid Blink, already stood laughing with a boy named Mush.

"Why not?" Skittery wanted to know.

"Why would you want to race me in the first place?"

"I want to make sure I'm still the fastest newsie in Manhattan," Skittery replied simply. The new kid laughed.

"That's all? All right then, I guess," the new kid said. Skittery smiled.

"Good. From here to Tibby's, where Racetrack is standing. You do know how a race works, right?"

"I'm not stupid," was the new kid's only reply.

"What are ya doin', Joseph?" Kid Blink asked, strolling over to his twin brother, who was bending down to tie a shoe lace.

"Racin'." Blink turned to Skittery.

"You better watch out," he informed the taller boy, "my brother's the fastest kid I know. He'll beat ya for sure." Skittery snorted.

"Right."

Blink agreed to start the race. He held his arm up high, above the heads of Skittery and the new kid. Once his arm came down, the racers were off.

Blink chuckled. There was no way that this Skittery kid was the fastest newsie in Manhattan, his twin must have been at least fifteen feet ahead. His brother kicked up the dust in the streets, and he made his running look so effortless. Joseph, as Blink had called him, had a nice easy stride, with large steps. Skittery, on the other hand, seemed slow and clumsy while running, and he tripped over his own feet twice in the first fifteen seconds of the race. Skittery wasn't in the least bit graceful, unlike the new kid.

The new kid reached Racetrack long before Skittery even jogged around the corner. When Skittery finally came to a halt in front of the new kid, he bent over double, his hands on his knees as he wheezed away. The new kid hadn't even broken into a sweat.

"If you were a horse," Racetrack told the new kid, "I would put all my money on you. I mean, you looked like you were going to take flight."

_Flight. _And it stuck.From then on, the new kid was known as Flight, and had been given the title of fastest in Manhattan ("And probably everywhere else," Jack Kelly had commented), pushing Skittery to second. He refused to look Flight in the eye for weeks; this had definitely been a major blow to his pride.

Flight and Blink laughed about the race for hours afterwards. No one was certain what was so funny. Blink and Flight had to keep that to themselves.

If anyone knew their secret, or, rather, Flight's, Skittery certainly wouldn't be laughing, and the twins would probably be kicked out of the Manhattan Lodging House for good.

Right now, that didn't matter. They had a new home, a job, friends, and their past was behind them. Life was good, and the other boys never had to know.

**This is my first fic, so if you would please review, that would be very much appreciated. I also don't own Newsies (like you couldn't have figured that out).**


	2. Chapter 2

"So, who wants Brooklyn? Ya know, Spot Conlon's territory?" Jack Kelly asked, exactly two years later. That day the price had gone up on the newspapers. Ten cents a hundred! The Manhattan newsies were going on strike, and they had to get word out to newsies all around New York, so they could join, and then the newsies would be unstoppable, right? It happened to be Flight and Kid Blink's fifteenth birthday that sweltering July afternoon.

The boys around Flight stuffed dirty hands into linty pockets, whistling broken tunes. They didn't want Brooklyn. Flight cautiously raised a hand.

"I'll go," he volunteered, "if someone goes with me."

"Great. Me, you, and Boots'll go. An' Davey can keep us company," Jack agreed.

Two hours later the quartet strolled down the docks of Brooklyn, large splashes echoing all around them as muscled boys threw themselves at the cool green water.

"Going' somewhere, Kelly?" a Brooklynite newsie asked, pulling himself over the edge of the dock to stand in front of Jack. Jack brushed past him without a word. The dripping Brooklynite huffed before catapulting himself back into the river.

At the edge of the dock, perched upon a teetering pile of crates (or a look-out, you could call it), sat a small, handsome boy of about sixteen. His hat was pulled low over his eyes to ward off the sun. His right thumb was curled around a red suspender, the other fingering a gold tipped cane in his belt loop. Flight guessed this to be Spot Conlon, and Flight was correct.

Spot jumped from his look-out base, landing just in front of Jack, who extended his hand, loaded with a wad of spit. Spot did the same, exchanging a few words and shooters with Boots before listening to what David had to say about the strike. Flight was glad that he had been given no chance or command to speak. Flight always tried to say as little as possible. Flight hated to talk. Flight silently prayed that Spot wouldn't turn and notice him. Then he'd have to say something. Flight had just decided that volunteering to be an ambassador was a stupid idea when Spot glanced in this direction.

"Hey, Jacky-boy, who's this?" he questioned, staring into Flight's eyes. Flight turned his head away sharply, focusing on a boat far out on the river. Flight hated to be stared at, too.

"Oh, this here it Flight Caden, Blink's twin. I'd forgotten you two hadn't met," Jack put in, introducing the two. Spot nodded, his eyes trained to Flight's face. He finally held out a spit laden hand to the small blonde Flight in front of him, who returned the gesture. Spot continued to peer intently at Flight's face.

"They should've called you Mute," Spot finally said. "Do you talk at all?"

"Yeah," Flight answered gruffly. He didn't say anything more. Spot nodded his approval.

"So, anyway, how do I know you punks won't run the first time some goon comes at ya with a club? How do I know ya got what it takes to win?" Spot asked, finally turning back to Jack, whose cowboy hat was placed firmly on his head.

"'Cause I'm tellin' ya, Spot," Jack replied.

"That ain't good enough, Jacky-boy. Ya gotta show me," Spot said in farewell.

As the four Manhattaners turned to their own territory, their footsteps falling with hollow thunks on the docks, Flight shivered as he brought up the rear. A pair of cold, silver-blue eyes were fixed on Flight's protruding back.

"What do ya mean, ya went to Brooklyn?" Blink asked Flight, pushing his twin into the cold brick of the Manhattan lodging house wall.

"I mean I went to Brooklyn," the smaller twin replied calmly.

"But, but . . ." the one eyed twin spluttered. "You saw Conlon? Conlon saw you?" Flight nodded, then shrugged (which was difficult, considering his brother had the palm of each hand pressed into Flight's shoulders).

"So?"

"Don't you get it, Jo? Conlon's got a reputation. I mean . . . Geeze, he could spot you from a mile off! You sure he doesn't suspect you?"

"Yeah." Flight nodded again, though a bit uncertainly this time. "Why should he?" Blink sighed.

"Just don't do it again, okay?" Blink pleaded to his twin.

Flight swore to his brother, "I'll never go to Brooklyn by myself or make a point of seeing Spot Conlon, promise." Blink was satisfied, and he let his only remaining sibling out of his grasp. Flight ran down the alley to join his best friend, Racetrack, in a game of crapshooter. Blink dropped his blonde head into his hands.

"I don't know, but that might be the stupidest thing Jo's ever done," he whispered to himself before wandering off to find Mush.

As Flight lay in bed that night, trying unsuccessfully to fall to sleep, pictures of Spot's eyes boring into him flashed through Flight's head. Flight couldn't place his finger on what exactly about it made him uneasy. Flight finally gave up, rolling over to face Kid Blink's sleeping form in the bunk across from his own.

There was no sound in the room besides the deep breathing of sleeping newsboys and Snipeshooter's rumbling snores. It was amazing how someone so small could make such a tremendous racket.

Flight had nearly fallen into slumber when Spot's cool eyes shot before his closed lids once more. Flight sat up with an audible gasp, the springs of his mattress creaking all too loudly for one in the morning.

Flight shook his head. Spot didn't know. He couldn't know. But if he did, and he told . . . Flight didn't want to imagine what awful things would happen to him. Flight shook his head again.

"Don't think about that," Flight commanded himself silently. "It's your own bloody fault. You knew you shouldn't have gone . . . it's your own bloody fault."

**To my reviewers, thank you very much. It means a lot. Hey B -- if I mention Catwalk, like just say she and Mush are dating, would you still give me five bucks?**


	3. Chapter 3

Flight and Spot didn't meet again until Manhattan's battle with the crypts, a gang of ugly men who made money by beating up kids like the newsies. To put it lightly, Brooklyn saved Manhattan's newsboy ass.

At one point in the fight, Flight had been cornered by two ill-shaven men, one with brass knuckles and the other with a club. Flight had never been the fighting sort, so when the club man swung at him Flight ducked, only to be punched in the stomach by the brass-knuckler.

Spot saved Flight for the first time just then, as he beat the club man over the head with his cane, before the club man could take another swing at Flight's own head. Flight took this time to make contact with the brass-knuckle boy's face, via his feet. Brass-knuckle boy stumbled backwards, a trail of blood issuing from his mouth. He came at Flight with a vengeance this time.

Flight felt sick as the man's fist came in contact with his face. The dominant smell of blood, his own blood, surrounded him. Flight fought hard not to empty his measly breakfast onto the brass-knuckle boy, but he didn't quite manage.

Knuckles stepped back in disgust, and Flight took the opportunity to lodge his right fist as far into the middle of the thug's face as it would go. Knuckle boy's nose collapsed under Flight's fingers with a sickening crack.

When Flight pulled his hand back it was covered in bright blood, and so was the thug's face. Brass-knuckle boy slid to the ground, dazed and confused.

"Nice work," Spot commented once Flight had turned around. Flight grinned sheepishly. The man with the club lay unconscious at Spot's feet. He didn't look quite human anymore due to the damage Spot's cane had inflicted.

Luckily for the newsboys, the fight was ended rather quickly after that.

At the celebration party at Tibby's that afternoon Flight tried to avoid Spot as best as he could, for the uneasy Spot feeling had come up again.

They met once in the restaurant, in which Spot spilled his glass of coke over Flight's shirt.

"Sorry," he mumbled, turning away from Flight. Flight sighed. It had been the only decent shirt he had left.

"No problem," he replied anyway. Flight prayed that coke didn't stain. Flight soon forgot about this, however, when Racetrack pulled out a pack of cards for poker. Poker was Flight's specialty.

Spot stole a glance at Flight over the top of his own cards. So he had been correct, not that he had ever doubted it. He was just surprised no one had figured it out as quickly as he had, or figured it out at all.

"Blink!" Blink allowed himself a grin as he set his cards, face down, on the little table that he, Mush, and Racetrack were seated at playing more poker two days later.

"Uh oh, boys, I think I'm in trouble," he laughed. Then the call came again.

"Buh-li-ink!" The cry rose in pitch as the name stretched from one syllable to three. Blink's grin faltered as he turned towards the door into the empty (except for the three card players) bunkroom. Racetrack took advantage of this, peeking at Kid Blink's cards.

"Flight, I'm up here! In here, with Mush and Race!" Blink called to his twin. Sounds of Flight tripping up the stairs floated in the players' direction.

Flight finally entered the bunk room, cradling his right hand in his left. Blink jumped up.

"What did you do, Caden?" Race asked, his brows furrowed.

"I don't know!" Flight wailed, hesitantly showing the three boys his blood covered hand. Of course, Flight knew perfectly well what had happened, but Flight couldn't just say so.

"Bring me some towels, Race," Blink commanded the Italian boy, who just stood there. "Mush, get Kloppman. Damn it, Race! Get me towels!" Racetrack scampered off to the washroom. He returned moments later, his arms laden with someone's towels.

Blink snatched a towel from Race and wrapped it around Flight's hand.

"You're welcome," Racetrack mumbled sarcastically under his breath.

A minute later Kloppman (who ran the lodging house), followed closely by Mush, Bumlets, Jack, Dutchy and several others, entered the bunkroom. Kloppman was out of breath and wheezing from the steep climb up those rickety stairs.

"Put pressure on it, Blink," Kloppman muttered, bending down to look at Flight. Flight was doing a miraculous job of keeping his tears at bay.

"Pressure," he mumbled again. Blink pressed his twin's hand between both of his own. "Elevate it!"

"Huh?" Elevate was apparently not in Blink's vocabulary.

"Hold it up, dumb ass," Race supplied.

Jack decided not to mention that two of the blood soaked towels were his. He had been going to comment on it when Flight choked back a sob. The kid had enough problems at the moment, Jack decided.

About half an hour later the bleeding finally stopped. Skittery sidled into the room unnoticed as Kloppman gingerly wrapped Flight's hand in off-white bandages.

"We'll need to change that in the morning. You'll have the scar forever," Kloppman informed Flight matter-of-factly. Flight nodded, and then climbed into his bunk above Snipeshooter's and fell asleep within moments.

Flight didn't say what had happened, of why a perfect "S" was now etched forever into his palm.

Kid Blink shook his head. Knowing Flight, he had probably been a smart alec and gotten himself into more trouble than was necessary. Yes, that would be it.

In fact, that was almost exactly what had happened.

**Review, review! Review and you shall recieve chocolate covered Spots, 'cause Spot is yummy:) **


	4. Chapter 4

_Flight glanced to his left and right. No one saw him as he entered the alley between the Lodging House and the shop next to it. Flight preferred to use the back entrance; it made him feel more at home that way. It sounded strange, but Flight was a strange person. That was all that could really be said of Flight's behavior._

_Flight's footsteps echoed eerily in the alley. Late afternoon sun light stretched Flight's shadow into a monstrous looking form. The green eyed newsboy was deep in thought, so when the low voice came, Flight was rudely startled out of his daydream. _

_"So, Caden, you're lurking in alleys now." Flight jumped a foot before whirling around to face the silky voice. Flight later wondered how on earth he had walked right past Skittery without noticing him._

_He was seated on a barrel, leaning against the red brick wall. His infamous pink long johns were open at the top, revealing a smooth and muscular chest. Skittery was sharpening a glittering silver knife against a whet stone._

_Scrape. Scrape._

_"You're lurking in alleys, Caden," he repeated, never looking up from his task. Flight nodded._

_Scrape. Scrape. Scrape._

_Flight started to turn, planning on continuing to the back door, but Skittery stopped him._

_"Stay." Flight stopped where he was._

_"Hold out your hand, Caden," Skittery demanded. Flight sighed._

_"Look, Skittery, I really don't have the ti--," Flight began, but he was silenced by Skittery._

_"Your hand, Caden." Flight rolled his eyes but held out his right hand anyway, palm up._

_Skittery took Flight's hand in his, and then he slowly slid the knife over Flight's palm in a half circle. Blood blossomed on Flight's skin as he took a sharp intake of breath. Skittery didn't let go._

_"Is it sharp enough?" Flight slowly lifted his eyes to Skittery's, a wicked grin spreading over his face._

_"Not nearly."_

_"Oh, good."_

_Scrape. Scrape. Scrape._

_"Hand," Skittery commanded. Flight held out his hand again, and the knife cut a diagonal line from the left edge of the half circle to the bottom of Flight's palm._

_The knife cut bitterly through Flight's flesh, and he winced, but said, "Not quite."_

_Scrape. Scrape._

_Blood trickled between his fingers, slowly and heavily dripping to the parched ground on which he stood. Skittery worked away on his knife._

_Scrape. Scrape. Scrape._

_Flight offered his hand before Skittery asked for it. The blade bit into soft pink skin for the last time, making the other half of the circle, the right tip connecting to the diagonal line._

_A crude, oozing "S" was carved into Flight's palm now, but the blood soon blurred together, and the "S" could no longer be seen._

_"I think that's good, Skittery," Flight finally said, tears welling in his eyes. _

_'I'm and idiot,' Flight thought._

_"Oh, thank you, Flight. I desperately needed a tester," Skittery sneered, dropping the bloody hand from his grasp, which Flight pulled to his chest protectively. _

_"You may go."_

_"Yes, your majesty," Flight said, rolling his eyes and bowing in a mocking way. He then turned and walked as calmly as he could to the back door of the Lodging House._

Flight sat up in bed. Weak, grey morning light filtered in through the window to the east side of the bunkroom. The other newsboys were still sleeping.

Flight let his gaze fall on his brother, whose eye patch was askew. His blonde hair was mussed from sleeping on it funny. Racetrack, in the bunk bellow Blink, had fallen asleep with a half smoked cigar between his lips. Mush's sheets were wrapped around his legs, and he shivered in his sleep. Flight smiled, this was all so peaceful to see.

And then there was Bumlets, who was hanging almost all the way over the side of the bed, though (thank the Lord,) he hadn't fallen off yet. Snitch cuddled up to Itey to keep warm. Jack's cowboy hat was placed firmly over his face to ward off any sunlight.

Flight liked to watch the boys sleep. It was, as already mentioned, peaceful. Then Flight's eyes landed on Skittery. His hand was curled loosely around the handle of the knife. Flight groaned.

Having been cut up by Skittery once was enough, but now the kid was going to sleep with the knife! Flight knew he was going to have nightmares for weeks.

Flight settled back onto his pillow. He might as well wait for Kloppman to wake everyone else up before he got out of bed.

Flight smiled again. The rally at Irving Hall was tonight, and he would have something to look forward to, for once. Flight wasn't obsessed with Medda like the rest of the boys were, but it was still fun to watch the show.

The day couldn't have dragged by any slower. Because the newsboys weren't selling papers, they had a lot of free time. This usually would have delighted Flight, but time passed quickly when he was selling newspapers down by the boxing matches in front of Tibby's.

Flight and Racetrack, just the two of them, played crapshooter for three and a half hours before anyone else joined the game. Flight did make a dollar after Mush, Blink, and Bumlets joined the game, which was really the only highlight of the day.

Finally, after what seemed like eternity, night slowly rolled around, and Flight found himself stuffed inside Irving Hall with about a thousand other newsies from all over New York.

Flight was crammed between Racetrack Higgins, Pie Eater, and several newsies he didn't know from Brooklyn, staring up at Jack Kelly, David Jacobs, and Spot Conlon. The three were standing on a makeshift bridge that would be used in Medda's performance later on.

"Carryin' the banner!" Jack yelled to the New York newsboy force.

"Carryin' the banner!" a thousand voiced cheered back at him. Jack grinned.

"So, we've come a long way, and it may just get tougher. But that's okay; we'll just get tougher with it!" Jack started, and this little speech was followed by tumultuous applause.

"But we also gotta get smart, and start listinin' to my pal David," more cheers, "who says: 'Stop soakin' the scabs.'"

"So what are we suppose to do to the bums, kiss 'em?" Racetrack shot at Jack. Flight guffawed, and Racetrack poked him in the ribs, though he was grinning too.

"Look, any scab I see, I soak 'em. Period." Spot spoke up for the first time that night.

"No, no, no! If we get violent, it's just playing into their hands," David told the crowd. Spot came to face David.

"They're gonna be playin' with my hands. 'Cause it ain't what they say, it's what we say, and no one's gonna listen to us unless we make 'em," he told him.

The crowd murmured amongst themselves. Jack yelled at them for fighting with each other, and then Race let Jack know that everyone was with him, but they just needed Spot's approval.

"I say, that what you say, is what we say," Spot finally said, offering a spit laden hand to the leader of Manhattan. The crowd cheered, and Medda's show finally began.

It was, of course, wonderful. Flight was enjoying himself immensely, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Spot. Flight stiffened, but followed him out of the room anyway.

Spot settled himself on a beer barrel, and stared at Flight, who shifted uncomfortably.

"Well? What do you want Conlon?" Flight finally got up the nerve to ask.

"I want to ask you a question," he finally replied. Flight nodded.

"Shoot."

"How many people know?" Whatever Flight had been expecting, it wasn't this.

"Excuse me?" Spot smirked.

"You know what I mean."

"Actually, I really don't," Flight said in confusion.

"Uh huh, right."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Just you, your brother and me, then?" Spot guessed.

"Uh, sure." Flight was becoming panicked now. Spot was not supposed to know this.

"All right then. Your secret is safe with me," Spot informed Flight before leaving, tipping his hat as he went.

Flight slowly made his way over to the table where he had been sitting with his brother earlier, and sat down. His brother was up on stage, making a fool out of himself, as usual. Blink was blowing kisses to no one in particular. Flight snorted, his brother was so stupid sometimes.

A shrill whistled sliced through the merry air, and Flight turned in his seat to see what it was. Policemen were invading the hall. Flight had to get out.

Flight, however, was not one of the lucky few who escaped the police that night. He rounded a corner and had been whapped by an officer's stick right in the side of the head.

Everything went black.

**Review, review! Press that little button in the left hand corner, you know you want to!**


	5. Chapter 5

When Flight awoke, he was stuffed inside a holding room at the refuge with about fifty other boys. Blink (whose face was bruising beautifully) was using Flight's stomach as a pillow. Flight's own head was resting on Bumlets's crossed ankles.

The sunlight streaming through the bars covering the window hurt Flight's eyes, causing a tremendous headache. If Flight had pained himself to take a look around the room, Flight might have noticed that Spot Conlon, who was sitting in a corner with his knees pulled up to his chest, was watching him.

A little while later, a heavy man with a large amount of stubble on his chin unlocked the holding room's door and ushered the newsies out of the room and into a carriage (it couldn't really be called a carriage because is was uncomfortable, wooden, and had bars on the windows) pulled by two black horses.

"Where are we goin', Flight?" the littlest newsies, Tumbler, asked, climbing onto Flight's lap.

"Courtroom," he replied.

"Oh."

"An' so then I says to the bum 'I'd like to see you try,' an' then he . . . Flight? Are you listening?" Flight wasn't listening to Racetrack ramble on about the scrapes he'd gotten into at Sheepshead Bay, and told him so. Race shrugged it off and continued to talk his mouth off, but this time it was directed at Specs.

Mush had dozed off to the right of Flight, and he leaned his head on Flight's shoulder. It wasn't the most comfortable position. Tumbler was attempting to twist Blink's hair into knots (Blink was sitting cross legged on the floor with his eye closed and his head leaning on Flight's knee), and Flight showed the boy how to braid it, much to Tumbler's delight.

"An' then, the horse won the race! So the guy tells me that he doesn't owe me a damn thing . . ."

"Flight! What are you doing to my head?"

"Braidin' it, Blink!" The chatter was becoming somewhat deafening, adding to Flight's headache. Bits and pieces of conversation were floating through the air and into Flight's ears.

"You so do to owe me!"

"She was so damn hot, I tell you!"

"I think I'm gonna puke!"

"Oh, no, Snitch! You are not going to puke in my lap!"

"An' the horse was in seventh place, an' then he almost fell and killed himself, and then he won! That's when Percy lost his five bucks to me!"

"Did you see Pulitzer in his carriage the other day? It was huge! And the horses, real good horses, yeah . . ."

"My little boids are all over the city. Watching every move you make. You blow your nose an' I'd know about it."

"Hey! We're here!" Skittery finally called.

"Oh good," Flight sighed, standing up and accidentally dumping Tumbler onto the floor. "Sorry," he said before hoisting the little guy onto his back.

The courtroom seemed to be made up of nothing but overly polished wood. The floors, the ceiling, the walls, the desks, railings to keep the newsie party from leaving the room (like they actually had anywhere to go), and Judge E.A. Monahan's podium was shiny. Flight could see his reflection (with Tumbler's face peering over his shoulder) in the wood.

"Arise, arise, the court is now in session, Judge E.A. Monahan presiding," the bailiff called.

"Like we was sittin' anyway?" Flight grumbled to himself. Tumbler giggled.

"Are any of you represented by council?" Monahan asked the newsboy force.

"Hey, Flight, what's a council?" Racetrack asked, turning and leaning over Blink's shoulder to see his friend's face. Flight shrugged.

"Dunno."

"You know everything, you should know this, too," Racetrack whispered back.

"It's impossible to know everything, Race. Otherwise I might actually know what I'm here for."

"Alright, no one. That should move things along considerably," Judge Monahan declared.

"Hey, your honor, I object," Spot spoke up.

"On what grounds?" Spot seemed confused, but after only a moment's pause replied:

"On the grounds of Brooklyn, your honor." The newsies burst into laughter, except for Tumbler, who didn't get it. Spot grinned.

"I fine each of you five dollars, or two weeks confinement in the House of Refuge," Judge Monahan said, banging his gavel. There was another explosion of whispers.

"Five bucks? This sucks," Spot muttered.

"Tell me about it," Flight answered.

"Hey Flight," Tumbler said, leaning down over Flight's shoulder, "what does sucks mean?"

"Stinks real bad," Flight answered.

"Oh." Tumbler thought for a second and then said, "Yeah, this does suck."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Five bucks? We ain't got five bucks, we don't even got five cents," Race shouted out. "Hey, your honor, how 'bout I roll ya for it, double or nothing?" More laughs.

"Move it along."

"I'll pay the fines," Mr. Denton (a newspaper reporter covering the newsies strike) said, "all of them." The newsies were ushered out of the courtroom as Jack was being led in. He was in extra trouble not only because he was the leader but he had escaped from the refuge several years ago.

"We need to meet at the restaurant," Mr. Denton said.

"To Tibby's!" Tumbler declared once they were outside, pointing in Tibby's general direction from his position on Flight's back. Flight smiled.

"Yep, that's right, kid."

"Come on," Blink muttered, grabbing hold of Flight's arm. "Spot's staring at you again. I don't like that."

"Mr. Conlon's nice," Tumbler said, crossing his arms. Flight let him down.

"Yeah, I know. Go find Racetrack, kid. Maybe if you're nice he'll tell you about Afleet Alex, the horse." Tumbler scampered off. Flight turned to Blink. "I can handle myself."

"I know. I just don't like it. If he knows . . ."

"How many times before have we had this conversation?"

"Too many."

"Yeah."

At the restaurant, Blink made it a point to sit next to Flight. He lit a cigarette.

"You know that's disgusting, right?" Flight hated smoking, especially when his brother did it.

"I need a smoke, Flight," he whined.

"Whatever." Mr. Denton arrived just then.

"I – I've come to say goodbye," he said sadly, hanging his head. Flight tuned out after that. Shit.

"Our leader's in the slammer, and there went our funding and publicity," Skittery grumbled after Mr. Denton had left.

"We're gonna need money," Dutchy said softly.

"We could sell one day a week," Bumlets suggested. Racetrack turned to glare at him. "Or not. Sorry."

"There are always factories," Flight said quietly. "Or . . . well . . . I could . . . you know, Blink."

"No Flight. No way. You wouldn't," Blink said, jumping up.

"If it would keep me alive. I could use the money to help all of us."

"You can't. You promised Ma."

"Well I haven't done anything yet, have I?" Blink glared at Flight.

"You promised," he said through his teeth.

"I know I did," Flight said. He picked up his hat and walked out the door.

"Shit," Blink muttered, sitting back down.

"You promised your ma not to work in factories?" Mush said incredulously.

"No, not to sell himself."

"Can't only girls do that?" Blink looked up at Mush sharply, but didn't answer. He stood and followed in the direction Flight had gone.

"Well . . . that was . . . um . . . what was that?" Bumlets asked, glancing at Mush.

"Dunno."

Two days later the strike was at a peak. A large amount of New York City arrived at Newsies Square for (hopefully) the final rally.

Flight was currently being hugged by Racetrack.

"You so know we beat 'em, Flight!" he shouted to be heard over the crowd.

"Hopefully."

"We just gotta wait till Jack comes out of that building all smiling," Race said, gesturing towards Pulitzer's building. "Ah," he said smiling, "right on cue."

Sure enough, Jack Kelly closely followed by David Jacobs, exited Pulitzer's building. Jack bent down to David's little brother, Les, and whispered in his ear. Les smiled and nodded, clambering on to Jack's shoulders. Jack stood up straight, looking over David's head to the crowd. With Les on his shoulders he was significantly taller than anyone else there.

"We beat 'em!" Jack screamed at the crowd, raising his arms triumphantly. He was going to say something else, but the deafening roar of the crowd drowned him out, so he just smiled and set Les back on his feet.

"Jack, Jack, it's the bulls. It's the bulls, let me down," Les said when he was only halfway down Jack's back. Jack turned to run. Flight, Racetrack, Blink and several others followed him to block him from the bull's sight.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Mr. Denton said, showing up in front of the small group.

"Come on, come on, let's go," Race said, attempting to jerk Jack around Denton.

"You don't have to run anymore. Not from the likes of them," Denton continued. Jack threw Race a dirty look as Denton pushed him back the way he had come.

To make a long story short, the bulls were releasing all the boys from the House of Refuge, includingfellow newsboy Crutchy. Warden Snyder, who had been trying so hard to land Jack in jail again, was arrested for stealing money that was meant to fund the refuge, not him personally.

Jack was offered the chance to go to the train yards and then go off to Santa Fe in Governor Teddy Roosevelt's carriage, at first accepting, and then turning around to come back to the newsies.

Jack stepped back out of the carriage.

"Besides, I've got family here," he said quietly, looking over the sea of newsies. This was the family.

Flight looked up family in the dictionary later that evening in the old red book that was Koppman's prized posetion and this is what it said: **Family: _(n): _A group of people who care for and love one another. **

As Flight looked around the packed Lodging House (all the Brooklyn newsies were still there), he thought that the newsies fit that description perfectly. This was most definitely a group of people who cared for and loved one another. This was where Flight belonged. Flight only had six months left in this particular family, but he didn't know that then.

**Yay! I updated! Amazing. Next chapter is the revealing. Review, or else I might not continue . . . :(**

**So review, I say! Review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**January 13, 1900 (Six Months after the Strike)**

"Have fun while I'm gone, okay?" Jack had said as he left the Lodging House that fateful night.

"Yeah, sure. Fun," Racetrack called out the door after him. "You have fun too, while you're out visiting that old aunt of yours, okay?" Jack laughed.

"Uh huh."

Racetrack, of course, was going to have fun. He had an excuse to have fun; Jack had basically commanded all of the Manhattan newsies to have fun. And Race's idea of fun was gambling. Since the races at Sheapshead Bay were over for the day, the only other thing to gamble on was poker. And to play poker you needed . . . a poker party.

And so they had a poker party. A big poker party. They'd invited all the Brooklyn newsies, but only Spot came. He had decided to have fun with Manhattan while the other Brooklyn newsies were practicing with their much loved sling-shots.

The newsies from Queens came, and those from the Bronx as well. Kloppman had decided he needed a night at home, so he wasn't in the newsies way at all.

At two o'clock in the morning, the Lodging House was littered with broken bottles, cards, cigarette butts, and several knocked out bodies that had had too much liquor. Even so, only the Manhattan newsies and Spot remained, huddled around a little table in the corner of the bunk room. The little ones had already climbed into bed, thoroughly exhausted by the events of the night.

Most of the remaining boys were extremely intoxicated, and only Racetrack Higgins, Spot Conlon, Mush Meyers and the Caden twins had their wits about them. They were the ones who were the die-hard poker fans. They needed to be able to think straight to win.

Flight peeked over the top of his cards. Spot had his forehead furrowed in concentration, Blink was grinning (he had the worst poker face ever, but was still good at the game), Mush's eyes glinted (but only slightly) in delight, but Racetrack had a poker face. Couldn't tell a thing.

Flight added another dime to the accumulating pile of coins. He had a very good hand.

"I fold," Spot finally declared, placing his cards face down on the table. "That hand sucked."

The other four players placed their cards face up. Blink had a straight, but not a real good one. Mush had all tens, and Racetrack had all the queens. Flight grinned. All four aces were in his hand. Flight pulled all the money to him.

"Sixty cents," he said after counting. "Not bad."

"Play again?" Racetrack asked.

"Oh, yeah. Deal me in. I will beat Flight here at some point, if I have to stay here all night," Spot declared, jabbing his thumb in Flight's direction.

It was twenty minutes later, Flight had won yet another game and they were in the middle of their fifteenth round (if Mush had been counting right, for he had had a little bit to drink).

Mush glanced up from his cards. Blink had set his cards down and was in the process of pushing his chair out from under the table as silently as he could. No one else had noticed he was leaving.

When Blink was half way to the door, he seemed to notice he was being watched, because he spun around. Mush opened his mouth to say something, but Blink shook his head violently, so Mush shut his mouth again and looked down at his hand. When he looked up, Blink was gone.

Mush shook his head. He would never understand why, but Blink did that every now and then. He just needed to be alone, and never wanted anyone to know he had left. Usually when Blink did this, he came back several hours later, completely drunk. Mush just hoped he wouldn't get into too much trouble.

"That's not fair! You have got to be cheating!" Spot yelled at Flight. He was extremely frustrated. "We've been playing for two hours since Blink disappeared into the floor, and you haven't lost once! That's not fair!"

"I'm sorry you're so bad at poker, Spot," Flight said calmly. "Want to try again?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, deal me in, Race."

Flight actually couldn't understand how he had won because he was so distracted with the absence of his brother. But he had managed to do it anyway.

In the middle of round thirty-seven, a large BANG could be heard from downstairs. The four boys turned in their seats.

"What the hell happened to you?" Bumlets voice floated up the stairs. There was no reply.

Then there was a stumbling, shuffling, and someone's attempt to walk straight. Up the stairs and into the bunkroom.

The steps were slow and heavy. The person kept running into walls. Finally, after what seemed like ages, a head appeared at the top of the steps, with one more step before actually entering the bunkroom.

Flight stood up suddenly, his chair screeching as it slid backwards and it toppled to the floor. Tumbler sat up in bed.

It was Blink, and, as predicted, he was very drunk. He was also covered head to toe in blood. Blink's shirt was ripped; a tooth appeared to be missing. His eye patch was completely gone, and from the way his closed left eyelid pitted in, it was obvious that there was no eye in the socket.

Blink looked around the room, spotted Flight and waved madly.

"Hiya, Josephine!" he called to Flight. He then let out a high-pitched giggle and pitched forwards, tripping over the last step.

Flight screamed, and when he didn't move, Flight rushed to his side.

"Blink! Blink!" Flight poked his brother with each word. "Get up! Come on, this isn't funny! Blink!"

Blink finally lifted his face from the floor, and giggled again.

"Hey, you look just like you did when Ma died, Josephine. Like you wouldn't be able to walk again, you was so scared," he slurred.

"Joseph," Flight corrected softly. "My name's Joseph."

Blink squinted at Flight.

"No it's not. My twin sister's name is Josephine."

"Twin brother, Blink. The name's Joseph."

"Nuh uh. Remember, Josephine, when Ma died? She told us to stick together, remember?"

"Yeah, but that doesn't matter. What happened?"

"Well, we did stick together. We worked for this one guy. You were a cook; you were so good at cooking. I was a stable hand, remember?"

"I meant what happened that you're covered in blood."

"Got in a fight, Josephine. Anyway, one night the guy comes home all drunk remember?"

"No," Flight said firmly. "Help me get him over to his bed," Flight said to Mush. Mush picked up Blink by himself and put him on Racetrack's bed, the bottom would be easier to get to than the top. Blink babbled on.

"But you gotta remember, Josephine. He was all drunk, and he pulled us out of that room we was using to sleep in. He grabbed that big sword over the fireplace and he –"

"Get towels and warm water," Flight said to no one in particular. Tumbler scrambled off to get the towels, with Dutchy right behind him with the water.

"And he cut out my eye, Josephine. It hurt so bad. I remember seeing it on the floor, and my whole face was covered with blood. I couldn't do nothing but sit and scream. Remember Josephine?" Flight was doing an extremely good job of ignoring him.

Flight dipped one of the towels into the water, and pressed it onto Blink's face, attempting to wipe away the blood. Blink flinched, but continued talking.

"You was trying to clean me up, like now, then the bloke came over and raped you. That was awful, too." Flight's face clouded over.

"When the guy's wife found out what happened, she did what she could an' then let us leave. We lived for a whole year on the streets. And you found out you was pregnant with that guy's kid. It was a girl. Caroline. Remember, Josephine? Remember?" Flight didn't answer, just scowled down at Blink. "But you gotta remember! We left Caroline on someone's front step, and you bawled your eyes out for weeks!" Blink was pretty well cleaned up by now.

"After a while, we got enough money to buy you some boy's clothes, and cut your hair all short, so you would look like a guy. Then we went to be newsies. We knew that they'd never let a girl in, so that was why you were hiding. An' Ma said we have to stick together, so we did. You remember now, Josephine?" Blink looked up at Flight, and Flight finally nodded.

"Yeah." Blink smiled.

"Oh, good. An then there was that time where –"

"Blink, just rest, okay? I know my history just as well as you do." Blink pouted for a moment, and then looked up at Flight, a smile spreading across his face.

"All right, but only if you sing." Flight looked down at Blink. Flight tucked a leg under another, sitting on the very edge of the bed. Blink placed his head on the tucked in leg and closed his eye as Flight ran a hand through his hair absently.

"Which song?"

"The one about the horses." Flight leaned back against the bed post, trying to recall the words.

"Hush bye bye, don't you cry, go to sleepy little baby. When you wake, you have sweet cake and all the pretty little horses," Flight began, a clear soprano voice filling the room. "Blacks and bays, dapples and grays, a coach and six little horses."

The newsies around the room stared at Flight. Boys couldn't sing like that. They had taken Blink's drunk ramblings as just that, drunk ramblings. But once they looked at Flight, he, or she rather, was very much a girl.

It struck them as odd that they had never noticed or bothered to notice at all before. Wouldn't it have been obvious?

_Apparently not, _Racetrack thought, leaning in to get a closer look at Flight. Flight did have very feminine features, high cheekbones, a small nose and lips. And looking at her chest, well . . . duh. Flight was his best friend, and he probably wouldn't have known in a million years. Racetrack felt really stupid.

He glanced over at Spot, who was still sitting at the poker table, his hat pulled low over his eyes and his arms crossed. He didn't appear to be too surprised.

"And all the pretty little . . ." Flight's song faded once she realized her brother was asleep. "Oh, good." She looked up at all the boys watching her intently. She stared a few of them down, before looking at her brother. She moved gently away from the bed, and stood, sweeping the room with her eyes. It was deadly silent.

"You can't stay." Flight looked around.

"What was that, Skittery?"

"I said you can't stay. Girls aren't allowed here," Skittery said, coming forward, his hands in his pockets. "But, just to be fair, I say we vote on it." Flight looked up sharply. She knew Skittery wouldn't say that unless he knew he was going to win the vote.

"So," Skittery continued, turning back around to look at the newsies, "all in favor of Flight . . . or . . . uh . . . Josephine was it? . . . leaving, raise your hand." Most of the hands in the room went up. Flight paled considerably. Skittery smirked. "All in favor of her staying raise your hand." Only Racetrack, Mush, Crutchy, Bumlets, and Tumbler (who didn't really understand what was going on) raised their hands. Actually, their hands more like shot up than were raised, not that that counted for anything.

Flight nodded and swallowed. She turned to what had been her bunk and grabbed her hat from the post, her extra pair of clothes and her pair of dice, stuffing them into an old bag. Skittery sat and watched.

"So, Flight, where you gonna go?" he asked, leaning against her bed as she counted up all the money she had. She glanced up to him before returning to her money.

"Streets," she answered simply. "I'll find something to do." Racetrack literally roared at Skittery.

"You can't let her sleep on the streets, not this time of year! She'll freeze to death! And, well, she's our friend; you can't just kick her out!"

"Watch me," Skittery said menacingly, towering over Racetrack. He then turned to Flight and dragged her to the top of the stairs and threw her down them. She landed at the bottom with a sickening crack.

"Damn it Skitts, you trying to kill her?" Racetrack yelped, running over to the stairs, but Skittery pulled him back.

"If you try to go to her, I will kill you."

"With what, huh? Threats?"

"No." Skittery pulled out his knife. "No. Not at all."

Spot had taken this time to quietly slip down the stairs, without Skittery noticing him. Racetrack didn't say anything else, so he was either dead (unlikely), or had apologized immediately. Spot squatted down next to Flight, who was struggling to sit up.

"What cracked?"

"Ankle," she panted, her face contorted with pain.

"You're lucky that wasn't your skull."

"Yeah." Spot could see the ankle in question already swelling grandly. Flight pulled herself up with the help of a chair.

"Here, I'll take you to Brooklyn. We allow girls there," Spot said, helping her to stand up straight.

Flight hobbled out the door, refusing Spot's help.

"You know, you really shouldn't be walking on that," Spot commented from just behind Flight. She just nodded. "Want me to carry you?"

"No."

"K."

By the time they reached the Brooklyn Bridge, Spot was carrying Flight's bag, which wasn't heavy at all, but she acted as though a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

At the other end of the bridge, Flight had her hand on Spot's shoulder, and she was leaning on him heavily. Spot slipped an arm around her waist for support.

The two mile walk from the Manhattan Lodging House to the Brooklyn Lodging house never seemed to take so long. It was probably the longest it had ever taken anybody to get from one to the other. At least Flight had an excuse.

Spot smiled. Flight was tough, she had lasted extremely long. In fact, she didn't pass out from the pain until they had stopped just outside the Brooklyn Lodging House.

Spot scooped her up without any trouble. She must have weighed a hundred pounds, if not less.

When Spot entered the Lodging House, Catwalk (a girl who acted somewhat like a mother figure to the newsies) stared.

"Spot, what . . ."

"Get a doctor. Unless you can set broken ankles." Catwalk couldn't, so she flew out the door, tugging on her coat as she went, in search of a doctor.

Spot trudged up the stairs, and laid her on the closest empty bunk.

Even in unconsciousness, Flight's face was screwed up in pain. Spot could only pray (something he didn't do often) that the doctor would get to the Lodging House soon.

**Yay! Seven Pages!**

**Um, he he. I didn't really think that would work so well, but I ended up getting tons of reviews (more than usual anyway). **

**Random list of why this took me from 10:00 to 4:14 today to write this (and other things):**

**1. I was drafted to clean the bathrooms. All 1,572 of them. Okay, three. But who's counting?**

**2. My mom says my hair looks good today (maybe I spent extra time on it?)**

**3. I'm really tired because I had a swim meet last night. My team won 311 to 254, and I got first in backstroke! Yay! I might have won in the I.M. if my goggles hadn't fallen off the second I dove in. If I touched them, I would have been D.Q.ed. I got third anyway.**

**4. It took me forever to read through this story, so I would actually know what the heck I had written, and if I could actually make a little plot line.**

**5. It took me forever because it's . . . seven pages.**

**Anyway . . . Shout outs!**

**Cinnamon Spice: What line did Race supposedly steal from you? Oh, and do I get my five cents now?**

**lainie-d: Thank you. Will continue.**

**antiIRONY: I hope this turns out to have a plot, and I'm sorry, it probably was really obvious. Oh well. Please forgive me, as it's myfirst fic and all. I wanted it to be six months because then it would be Flight's half birthday. The strike would have started on July thirteenth (which I said was Flight and Blink's birthday), so January 13 would have been the half birthday. Birthdays aren't usually that great for Flight and Blink.**

**SilentTwilight: No! Review! Review! I'll update if you just review!**

**Review, I say! Review!**


	7. Chapter 7

"And he's sure it's them?"

"Yeah. Twins, boy and girl. Surname of Caden. Josephine and, uh, somebody. But it's close enough. They fit the description."

"Did you give him the knife?"

"Yeah, like, six months ago."

"Good. He doesn't even know what he's doing, does he?"

"Nope."

Silence.

"So, um, since we know we got 'em, what are we gonna do now?"

"Right now? Right now, we're gonna wait. So they think they're safe."

"What?"

"I said, we're gonna wait."

Flight felt like she had a hangover when she finally woke up to weak morning light. Not that she'd ever had a hangover, but considering what Blink looked like the mornings after he got drunk, Flight was pretty sure this was what a hangover felt like.

A pounding headache, the absolute worst one she'd ever had. Ever. And the voices, oh Lord, the voices! There seemed to be a million people packed into the room, all shouting to each other at the top of their lungs. Which wasn't helping the headache at all, let me tell you.

Flight cracked open her eyes slowly, only to shut them tightly again before she could even register that there were only three people in the room besides herself. Flight opted not to try to open her eyes again. The voices of two of the three people in the room conversed loudly (what seemed like miles) above her head. They were actually talking in hushed tones, but at that moment Flight neither knew nor cared, as a sharp pain shot through her ankle. She cringed, but still did not open her eyes. The conversation went on without even knowing she was now conscious.

"And you let him walk here all the way from Manhattan?" Unfamiliar voice asked.

"Her. And she wouldn't let me carry her, so yeah." Spot.

"Now, how did he break it again?" Unfamiliar voice.

"She broke her ankle falling down a set of stairs." Spot.

"Is he usually this clumsy?" Unfamiliar voice. Shrug from Spot.

"What happened before that?" Unfamiliar voice.

"We was playin' poker." Spot.

"Was he drinking?"

"Flight is a _girl. She._" Spot.

"Sorry. Was _she_ drinking?" Unfamiliar voice.

"No. Don't think I've ever seen her drink." Spot.

"Who were you two playing poker with?" Unfamiliar voice.

"Racetrack Higgins, her brother, Mush Mey – hey, what the hell does this have to do with her ankle?" Flight laughed, and she felt Spot jump beside her. She tried cracking her eyes open, and it didn't hurt so much this time.

"Nothing, I just wanted to know." Flight turned her head to the source of the other half of the conversation. She wanted to laugh again.

An old, wrinkled man was hunched at the end of the bunk she was laying on. His lips were pressed together, and they were so far away from his nose he looked somewhat like a turtle, helped by the fact that most of the skin of his neck was hanging loosely, his head thrust forward. He squinted, even though he was wearing thick, wire rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes to three times their normal size. The whole thing was topped off by two tufts of grey hair sticking out of either side of his spotty head.

She hoped this was a doctor, because her ankle was killing her. Luckily, it was.

"Look, Brightman, how much? To set an ankle?" Spot again.

"Uh, let's see," the doctor said, adjusting his glasses on his nose, "I would guess ten dollars. Yes, ten dollars seems reasonable." Spot ran a hand through his hair.

"Ten bucks?"

"Yes, ten dollars, Mr. Conlon." Spot shook his head.

"Yeah, sure, the guys and I can scrape it up. Will you just set the ankle now, Brightman?" Doctor Brightman looked at Flight critically.

"He'll be in a lot of pain once I touch it, but –"

"SHE. Flight is a SHE. Okay?" Spot was stressing this like, a lot. Flight was actually glad she could still fool somebody into thinking she was a boy. Oh well.

"She, yes, of course. For and extra five dollars I can make sure she won't feel any pain."

"Look, ten bucks is enough. She can do it. She's used to pain." Spot looked at Flight. "Right?"

"Yeah." Flight grimaced as she pushed herself up to a sitting position. "Shit, that hurts," she said, glaring at her ankle. Spot smiled.

"Just set it, would ya, Brightman?" The old man nodded, adjusting his glasses again. He reached out for Flight's ankle. Flight had to suppress a scream when his fingers connected with bruised skin. She did, however, jerk away.

"You'll have to stay still if you want this fixed so you can walk on it again," Brightman said, quirking an eyebrow. Flight nodded mutely. Brightman placed one hand on her foot and the other just above her ankle. As long as he was careful, he and Flight were on good terms.

The stupid doctor then twisted the two to fit together. Flight yelped, and her hand shot out to grab Spot's without thinking.

Every time stupid fucking Brightman (as Flight so lovingly dubbed him) touched her, Flight squeezed Spot's hand tighter and tighter, and she kept her eyes fixed on Catwalk in the back round as she bustled around, making beds, clearing piles of clothes from the floor, generally cleaning up after the newsies of Brooklyn.

She felt the bone of her ankle click together, and she squeezed Spot's hand again. She thought that that was the only thing keeping her sane, his warm hand in hers, gently squeezing her hand back reassuringly.

"Well, that's done," Brightman said, adjusting his glasses for the third time. "Don't walk on it for three weeks. I'll be back then to check up on it and collect my ten dollars. Good day, Mr. Conlon." Flight stared at his protruding back in disbelief.

"Three weeks?" she whispered. "Three weeks of not being able to sell. Jesus, how am I gonna pay for board?"

"Look, we'll give it to you free, you could use it." Flight jumped, she had nearly forgotten Spot was there. She looked at him, managing a weak smile.

"Thanks." She glanced down to find that her hand was still in his. She pulled her hand back, a light blush spreading over her face like poison ivy before fading. Spot thought she looked sweet when she was blushing, but he quickly shook that thought off.

"Sorry," she muttered. Spot didn't answer. She thought for a minute, and then looked up at Spot as the door snapped shut behind Catwalk, the girl's footsteps clunking heavily on the stairs. "Hey, look, I can pay some of the ten bucks –"

"No. Just don't worry about it okay?" Spot looked down, and then stood up quickly, nearly knocking over his chair. "Look, I gotta go, see you in a bit." He walked out the door of the bunkroom without a backward glance.

Catwalk arrived back in the bunkroom with a bowl of warm soup. It wasn't hot, but it wasn't cold either, so it was good enough for Flight, who wolfed it down in two minutes flat.

"Three weeks, huh?" Catwalk inquired of Flight, looking down at the slightly younger girl. Flight nodded.

"I'm gonna be bored outta my mind." Catwalk grinned.

"I can help you there," she said, holding out a tan hand with chewed fingernail. Flight took it without hesitation.

"So, you know how to play crapshooter?"

Catwalk didn't, and Flight taught her how to. Once Catwalk got a hang of it, they could actually talk without having to concentrate on the game too hard.

The two found out that their greatest short term goal was to eat a bucket full of chocolate ice cream, they both had brothers, were orphans and had had blue stuffed bunny rabbits named 'Bunny'.

"I don't think I'll be as bored outta my mind as I thought," Flight said grinning, scooping up the dice. "Bet you three cents it'll add up to eleven."

"You're on." Flight rolled the dice. A six and a five. Flight held out a hand.

"Three cents, please."

**Boy am I lazy. My computer suggested I make the am in that sentence an is. Boy is my computer stupid. All right, that took me like five days to sit down and write this. I dare you to tell me I'm not lazy. Come on, I dare you.**

**Cinnamon Spice: I know you don't bite your nails, but it just seemed good, so there. Bad typing day? You are still alive, aren't you? I haven't talked to since, like, last week.**

**antiIrony: I'm working on the plot, so it only sort of has one. Yeah, Skittery's psycho. Blink actually just got into a really heated bar fight, nothing real important. (cough cough). I hope you start writing. I'd review anything you wrote, even if it did suck. Which it probably doesn't. **

**SilentTwilight: Sorry if I scared you (that was kinda the point, however, but, oh well.) I agree. Tumbler is too innocent to see such bloody things. I take pity on him for making him watch such awful things. **

**Race: I hate your grandma, Butterfly.**

**Me: It's not my fault she has alzheimers and still thinks I'm going into the fourth grade, and she believed me when I told her I'd taken up skydiving. At least she knows who you are.**

**Race: But, but she made me lose a bet.**

**Me: She's 81. I doubt it, I mean, I don't even think she remembers that today is her birthday. **

**Race: Fine, don't be on my side and don't put me in this chapter!**

**Me: Hey, if you complain to much you'll drop from my best friend to worst enemy. **

**Race: I'll go pout in a corner now.**

**Me: Fine. All right, I'm done being insane, one more week till my birthday! Cue, Mush!**

**Mush: Review, I say! Review!**

**Me: Anything to add to that, Mush darling?**

**Mush: Butterfly doesn't own Catwalk, Cinnamon Spice does.**

**Me: And?**

**Mush: I love Bailey!**

**Me: Oh, very good! Review, I say, review!**

**madmbutterfly, out.**


	8. Chapter 8

"I so did to win that game!"

"Nuh uh!"

"Yeah huh!"

"Nuh uh!"

"Yeah huh!"

"Uh, Flight?" Flight jumped and snapped her head around to face the door of the bunkroom, where Blink stood with a sheepish smile on his face. Flight's eyes narrowed and the smile left Blink's face.

"Would you mind?" Flight asked icily, turning back to Catwalk. Catwalk, being her usual cheery self, smiled and nodded, leaving the room without question. Flight gathered the cards spread out on her bed and began to shuffle them absentmindedly, refusing to look at her brother.

Blink sighed. So maybe this wasn't going to be as easy as he thought.

"Um, Flight, you know I didn't mean to." Flight glared at the cards. Blink swallowed. "Being drunk can make you do stupid things. If I knew what was going to happen, I wouldn't have –"

"But you did. And we could be dead in three weeks if you don't watch it. 'Cause now all of New York knows, or all of New York that matters, anyway, and that's enough to get us busted. You knew you shouldn't have done that, and you decided to be an asshole again and blow it, like you always do. I can't believe you didn't figure it out before that. When you, of all people, are drunk, you are a danger to yourself, and me, too." Flight was on rant mode. At least now she was looking at Blink. "Do you even remember it happening? Or are you just going off of the nice things Race told you to make it sound not so bad? You don't think, do you?"

"Ah, no, not really," Blink cut in. He didn't want this to go much farther. "Flight, I'm sorry. You know that. You also know that you're not really mad at me, because you never are, and I know that, too, okay? Please stop acting all prissy and get over it, 'cause I gotta go sell the afternoon addition, and every minute I spend in here arguing with you is a penny lost for me." Blink stopped to draw breath, but then realized he didn't really have much to say.

"I hate you," Flight said, her voice sugar-coated in sarcasm. Blink smiled again. It was evident that she wasn't really mad at him. "Up for a round?" she asked, pointing to her cards.

"Always."

Blink always made it a point to visit his sister every day after that for the remainder of the three weeks when she was not allowed to walk. They played poker mostly, or talked about what was currently going on in the world (Blink brought Flight a copy of the newspaper everyday), but always was careful to avoid the subject of just how much danger it was possible they were in.

Things had been going well, and Flight was a week and a half into her confinement, when Race decided to show up for a visit. It was very obvious to Flight that Race was extremely miffed at her for not telling him that his best friend was a girl.

He stood leaning against the crumbling door frame, wearing his usual plaid pants and wringing his cabby hat in his ink stained hands. He seemed slightly thinner than usual because he had lost a whole week of pay to a man at Sheepshead and was too proud to except food from any of the newsies. He had the distinct smell of someone who had not bathed for a while, considering he had not been able to pay for board at the Lodging House either.

The only sound in the room for a few minutes was the shuffling of the now worn cards in Flight's long fingered hands. The uncomfortable silence stretched for so long that even Race, who was always so cool, calm, and collected, felt that it was unbearable. He was just getting ready to say something when Flight finally looked up and gave him a smile. He didn't return it. Her smile faltered.

"You can put your hat back on Higgins. There's no reason to keep it off, and you'll be warmer if you do keep it on," Flight said, finally breaking the silence. Racetrack grunted. "Sorry? Didn't quite catch that."

"There's a lady in the room, apparently." Even Racetrack's voice sounded thin and raspy, as if it hadn't been used for a long while. Flight scanned the room.

"I don't see one."

"You're the apparent lady, dumb ass," Race informed her, accompanied with a bark of laughter. The blonde's green eyes narrowed dangerously.

"I'm no lady, Race, and don't call me a dumb ass."

"You seem pretty dumb to me! Even forgot to mention what you really were!" Race had straightened up from his slouching on the door frame.

"What? A girl?"

"A bitch, more like." Flight let out an angry hiss and attempted to leap from the bed but was stopped when shooting pain spread from her ankle again.

"Look, Race –"

"Don't look Race me!" Race said, a bit of a maniacal gleam in his eye, his voice becoming increasingly louder and stronger. "You're just trying to make yourself look better! Being a boy! Because you know that men will always dominate over women. You were just being a stupid little bitch like all little girls are and tried to rise over that. Women! They are so weak!" The air rang with that last remark, and Race's chest heaved as he gasped for breath. He really needed to eat.

"Come over here so I can break your nose, Race," Flight finally said.

Race could feel his stomach growling. He must be going insane from want of food. Had he really just said that to Flight?The person he had considered hisfirst real friend?

"Race, I had to." Race opened his mouth to speak again, but the look Flight gave him made him realize that he should shut up for once and listen. "I . . . well . . . I can't tell you why. It's too dangerous still. I don't know who's working for them. Hell, it could be you. So I can't tell you but . . . Race, I really am sorry." Flight had the sudden urge to cry, but swallowed the lump in her throat defiantly. She would not, WOULD NOT, cry in front of Race, because that would almost be backing up his statement that women were weak.

"I don't even understand it fully, so I couldn't explain it to you properly even if I was allowed to." She swallowed again. "And women aren't weak."

Race sighed and slapped his cap back onto his head.

"Yeah, I know. I just . . ." Race fumbled for an excuse. "Yeah." That didn't seem quite satisfactory. "Sorry." That was a bit better. Maybe he should ask for forgiveness. Race was opening his mouth to do just that, but Flight cut him off.

"I forgive you." Her ears went pink. "Before you ask, 'cause I know you would." Race opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and then closed it. He knew he must look like a fish.

"Friends?" The word came out in a rasp. His voice seemed to have given out on him again. Flight nodded.

Unexpectedly, she reached under her bed and produced a burlap sack. She opened it, plunged her arm inside and came back out with a roll, which she tossed to Race. He looked confusedly at her.

"I hate 'em, and Catwalk keeps giving them to me, so I just save 'em in case I'm desperate." Then she added, "You look hungry."

Racetrack devoured the roll. His thank you was muffled, due to the fact that his face was stuffed full of bread.

Everything seemed quite easy between the two after that. Race ate the whole bag of rolls in fifteen minutes and played 18 rounds of crapshooter with Flight, all in a comfortable silence.

Flight jumped at the chiming of a clock downstairs.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

"You should be going now," Flight reminded Racetrack with a nudge to his shoulder.

"Yeah. I'll see you soon"

"Yep."

Flight didn't know what on earth made her say it, but just as Racetrack was closing the door, she blurted it out.

"How's Skittery?"

Racetrack turned to stare at her.

"Dunno," he answered slowly.

"How do you mean?" Flight asked, furrowing her brows.

"I dunno. He disappeared."

**Author's Ramblings: I'm baaack! It's been more than a month, but here I am! Sorry for the long while it took to get this up here. I'm not going to even try to find an excuse, because that would be pointless. I give you my permission to smite me with muffins. Note: I am now one year older than when I last updated. I have also been to camp, gone on vacation to the U.S. Virgin Islands, got a wicked tan, and won the conference swim meet! I mean, my team did, not just me. Righto, shout outs!**

**DodgerMcClure: Hey! I'm glad you like it! Um, I probably knew that at some point. Mrs. Polite MIGHT have mentioned that in health once or twice, but I dunno. Really shows you how much I deserved health student of the month. Anyway, why do you ask?**

**Cinnamon Spice: Mush loves you too. Hope you had/are having fun in Kentucky. Make up Newsie day on Thursday?**

**SilentTwilight: Glad you're excited. Hope Spot's winning on the email war thing!**

**lainie-d: Why thank you! **

**antiIRONY: I'm glad new chapters make you happy. They make me happy too!**

**Alrighty, love you all. Continue to be awesome and review please!**

**Also, I'm sorry it's so short and pretty much pointless. I've been having major writers block. Oh yeah, no excuses. Sorry.**


	9. Chapter 9

Spot slithered out of bed on the morning that marked the third week of Flight's confinement in bed early so that he wouldn't be disturbed in the wash room. Spot liked his space. He didn't like whiny kids in the morning fighting over his sink. Yes, Spot had his own sink.

The arms of his long johns hung down around his waist. It was to warm outside to wear them on his arms, so he just let them dangle.

Spot washed his fast first, moving the soap in circles slowly across his cheeks. He had no reason to hurry. He reached for a towel, slowly patting his face dry before lathering it with shaving cream. Spot picked a razor that he suspected might belong to that one boy, Scale, but he wasn't sure.

Spot took his precious time shaving. He was proud of the fact that he had never once nicked himself. He was nearly done when he looked over his shoulder in the mirror. Spot jerked his hand and yelped at the same time, drawing blood from his face. He certainly hadn't been expecting Flight to be staring back at him.

She laughed, at him or the situation he wasn't sure, but she laughed all the same. Spot swore and spun around to face her.

"What the hell do you think you're doing scaring me like that?"

"I wasn't trying to scare you, only trying to use the washroom," she said innocently, limping slightly over to the sink next to Spot's.

"This one looks clean," she said quietly, plucking an unused looking toothbrush form a jar on the counter. Spot was too angry at her for scaring him to laugh, otherwise he would have. He was currently struggling to clean up his fresh cut without getting shaving cream into it.

Flight brushed her teeth as she watched Spot with an amused expression on her face.

"You're hopeless," she said finally, spitting out the toothpaste and replacing the toothbrush in its proper jar.

"Is that right?" Spot snapped.

"Yeah, it is." She took the towel he was using away from him. "Just wash your face off first; it would be a lot easier that way."

"Whatever." He did it anyway. She slapped the towel on his cut and tilted his head back.

"Just press it. Do that for a couple minutes. It should stop bleeding." Spot raised an eyebrow.

"How do _you_ know that?" he asked accusingly. She stared at him for a moment before replying softly.

"I've had my fair share of injuries."

She hobbled out of the washroom slowly and just managed to get out before the first flood of boys burst in, claiming shower stalls at the top of their lungs, only to have someone jump in before them anyway.

Spot scowled at all of them. Who cared what shower they got as long as they got a shower?

"Hypocrite," he said quietly to himself. It mattered to Spot. He strode over to the stall on the far left and kicked the kid in it out. This was Spot's stall, and he wanted to use it. It was that simple. Spot wanted something, and he got it. Spot _always_ got what he wanted.

Skittery huddled in the corner of the warehouse. That was all he knew about the place; it was a warehouse.

The people came about once every two days to give him a little bread. When he asked them why they had brought him here, they simply laughed and gave him a swift kick in the ribs.

"You're funny kid," one of them had said once. "Real funny."

He'd been here a week and a half, or at least he thought he had. He'd had a lot of time to think about it, about how he got here in the first place. How _had_ he got here again?

Oh, yes. He'd been selling, he knew that. Skittery had sold a paper to a middle aged man, maybe in his late thirties. The man had smiled, he remembered.

"Hello, Skittery," the man in the tweed suit had said. And suddenly there was another man, only he was wearing plaid. The two appeared to be brothers, because they looked scarily alike.

Skittery knew he had been staring at the two of them open mouthed in confusion, when there was a sharp pain in the back of his head, and he had blacked out. He knew that for certain, because a large chunk of time seemed to be missing. He had woken up on the hard dirt floor of the ware house, and he hadn't found a way for escape since.

The first thing he had found when he woke was that his knife was gone.

"Fifty papes, please," Flight said, sliding her twenty-five cent piece across the counter.

"Fifty papes!" Bill called to a worker, who passed him the stack. "You think you can handle fifty on your first day, kid?" he asked Flight quietly. Flight laughed.

"It ain't my first day," she said, gathering the papers and marching down the distribution center's steps.

Flight had sold out by lunch. Apparently having a bandage around your foot did boost sales. Flight could live with this.

She wheeled around towards the diner. Martha's was the Brooklyn equivalent of Tibby's; all the newsies hung out there.

Flight hobbled inside and sat down at a corner booth by herself, ordering a roast beef sandwich. She watched everyone in the restaurant carefully, just by way if amusement.

A small group of eight year old boys played crapshooter at one table, while the older boys played poker at another. Catwalk was talking to a little girl, whose mother was glaring at her, and Spot was kissing some brunette passionately in a corner booth. This sent a pang to Flight's heart, but she quickly shook it off.

To avoid looking at Spot, Flight's eyes traveled to the booth adjacent to him. In the seat were two men, one in a plaid suit and one in tweed. Flight's eyes widened. She placed a dime on the table to pay for the sandwich she never ended up getting and hurried out of there.

"I don't think they saw me," she muttered, limping down the sidewalk.

"Who didn't see you?" Flight jumped, but then relaxed as her brother slung his arm over her shoulder. Race was with him, grinning, as usual.

"I'll tell you later," she said quietly. Blink just shrugged.

The three of them walked down the street and over the Brooklyn Bridge; Flight wanted to go back to Manhattan for the afternoon.

"And get this," Race was saying, "the horse beat the three time champion, and so I won five bucks! Five bucks, Flight! And then – Blink? Are you listening?" Blink had come to a complete frozen stop in the doorway of the Manhattan Lodging House.

Race looked hard at Blink, and then at Flight, who had also stopped dead and was clutching her brother's hand. Race then followed their line of vision.

He didn't understand what had made them stop. It was just two short, plump men, one in a tweed suit and the other wearing plaid. Race didn't know why his two best friends had looks of absolute terror etched onto their faces. One of the two men stepped forward.

"Hello, Josephine, William. It's a pleasure to finally be meeting you."

"What do you want?" Blink asked hoarsely. The main in plaid smiled a thin little smile, but the man in the tweed suit spoke.

"You know what we want," he said rather simply. "We want you."

**Wee! Okay, so it's been forever, and I know that chapter was short, but that's not the point. The point is that I updated! So yea for me! **

**Alright, I have an important matter to discuss with you all, especially all you**_ **Non Reviewers!**_ **Do you know how many reviews I have? 21. Do you know how many hits I have? _308!_ So, basically if everyone who's ever clicked on my story and read it, reviewed I would have 308 reviews. And, guys, it really bugs me that so many of you aren't reviewing, because it really is important, and as an author it means a lot to find my inbox chock-full of reviews. **

**So, last chapter, I had 2 reviews. Two. How many hits? 19. That's 17 of you who didn't review! That's a lot of reviews gone. Guys, it takes about 2 seconds to leave a review. Just say that you read it and you liked it, or leave a review and say you hated it if you feel so compelled. However, if you do hate it, you wouldn't have read this far. **

**To those two of you who DID review:**

**Cinnamon Spice: Uh, no you didn't, but okay!**

**Queen of Doom: Skittery really has no idea. And I know it's been forever! I'm glad you like it!**

**All of y'all who read this and don't review, please just press that little blue button on the bottom left hand corner of your screen and take ten seconds of your time to let me know what you think. It really would be greatly appreciated, considering this is my fist fic. Please review!**


End file.
